THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


OF 


POEMS 

BY 

MARTHA  ELIZABETH    POWERS 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
KATE  SHANNON  KNIGHT 


"  It  singeth  low  in  every  heart, 
We  hear  it  each  and  all,  — 
A  song  of  those  who  answer  not, 
However  we  may  call." 


CAMBRIDGE 

jprtntci  at  tljc  Ktoewtte 
1892 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  KATE  BRANNON  KNIGHT 

All  rights  reserved. 


TS 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  making  this  small  collection  of  poems 
from  among  those  left  by  Miss  Powers,  the  ob 
ject  has  not  been  to  offer  them  to  the  public, 
nor  as  a  contribution  to  literature;  but  as  a  part 
of  herself,  an  echo  of  that  dear  voice  that  is 
forever  still,  they  are  now  printed  as  a  last 
token  for  those  who  loved  her.  That  she  wrote 
verses  at  all  will  be  a  surprise  to  many  who 
knew  her  well.  So  modest  was  she  about  claim 
ing  any  merit  for  them,  calling  them  "  Rhymes  " 
simply,  even  to  her  nearest  friends,  that  it  is 
with  a  sense  of  silent  apology  to  her  that  I  have 
ventured  to  gather  together  these  scattered 
threads. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  write  a  fit 
ting  memorial  of  Miss  Powers.  Our  lives  ran  so 
closely  together,  my  gratitude  and  affection  are 
so  strong,  and  my  sense  of  loss  is  so  great,  that 


76404 


4  INTRODUCTION 

it  would  be  useless  to  try  to  be  impersonal ;  but 
it  is  not  necessary.  Those  into  whose  hands 
this  little  book  will  come,  those  whose  lives 
touched  hers,  do  not  need  to  be  told  how  beau 
tiful  the  life  was  that  has  closed,  how  rare  the 
scholarship,  how  strong  and  fine  the  spirit  that 
held  the  frail  body,  without  wavering,  to  duty 
and  the  right,  nor  that  her  friendship  was  an 
inspiration  and  a  benediction.  Strangers  could 
not  be  made  to  understand  it.  The  simplest 
statement  of  the  truth  would  sound  like  eulogy 
to  those  who  did  not  know  her. 

The  impromptu  lines  of  her  old  friend  and 
neighbor,  John  G.  Whittier,  fitly  express  the 
loving  appreciation  of  those  who  best  knew  her : 

"  Among  the  wise  and  helpful  souls, 
Whose  generous  lives  made  ours 
More  sweet  for  love's  unselfishness, 
Be  numbered  Martha  Powers. 

"  The  smiles  that  shone  through  grateful  tears, 

Like  sun  in  April  showers, 
Lit  up  through  all  its  clouding  cares 
The  heart  of  Martha  Powers. 


INTRODUCTION  5 

"  Life  is  no  pastime,  —  duty's  ways 

Not  always  lead  through  flowers, 
But  few  have  walked  therein  more  brave 
And  sweet  than  Martha  Powers. 

"  Still  those  she  loved  and  served  in  life 

Her  memory  richly  dowers, 
And  happy  homes  confess  the  debt 
They  owe  to  Martha  Powers." 

She  gave  her  life  freely,  gladly,  for  others,  not 
alone  for  her  friends  ;  any  one  who  needed  help 
had  a  claim.  Especially  her  heart  went  out  to 
all  who  were  struggling  for  knowledge  or  growth 
in  any  way.  A  desire  for  better  things  found  in 
her  instant  sympathy  and  practical  encourage 
ment.  I  recall  more  than  one  instance  in  which 
her  few  hours  of  rest  were  given  up  because 
this  laborer  or  that  servant  could  come  at  no 
other  time  for  the  halting  reading  lesson,  some 
times  in  broken  English,  sometimes  with  a 
brogue. 

How  gentle  she  was  as  a  teacher,  how  wise, 
how  patient !  No  one  who  tried  and  failed  felt 
stupid  under  her  kind  eyes.  How  boundless, 


6  INTRODUCTION 

her  compassion  was  for  those  who  were  left 
behind  in  the  race  ! 

She  was  so  keen  in  intellect  herself,  with  so 
great  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  that  she  always 
read  like  a  student,  looking  up  every  reference 
not  familiar  to  her,  and  making  one  feel  that  all 
of  her  that  was  not  soul  was  mind,  and  yet  she 
devoted  herself  to  those  who  were  mentally 
maimed  and  halt  and  blind,,  the  "backward" 
ones.  To  her  they  were  all  "  God's  occasions." 

A  mind  was  like  a  garden  to  her.  She 
"  planted  out "  the  weeds  with  something  better, 
and  saving  what  was  good,  —  ah,  how  quickly 
she  recognized  it !  —  she  filled  in  here  and  filled 
in  there  with  infinite  pains,  until  at  last  she 
could  reap  her  reward  by  seeing  before  her 
eyes  that  for  which  she  had  wrought,  —  indi 
viduality.  No  two  of  her  gardens  were  alike. 
Her  methods  brought  forth  no  copies. 

I  need  not  add  that  her  pupils  did  more  than 
simply  grow  in  the  knowledge  of  books.  They 
learned  lessons  of  life  that  are  priceless  to  them. 
Straight  from  more  than  one  heart  came  the 


INTRODUCTION  1 

message,  "  She  was  the  inspiration  of  my  life ; 
all  that  I  am,  all  that  I  am  capable  of  becoming, 
I  owe  to  her." 

And  what  she  was  to  her  pupils  she  was  also 
to  her  friends.  It  was  a  curious  fact  that  each 
one  brought  his  best  to  her.  Not  because  she 
was  critical ;  she  always  had  an  excuse  for 
those  who  faltered  by  the  wayside,  a  reason  for 
all  shortcomings  except  what  she  fancied  were 
her  own. 

Instinctively  one  felt  the  uprightness  and  no 
bility  of  her  character,  that  she  was  filled  with 

"  a  fine  sense  of  right, 

And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occasion, 
Straight  as  a  line  of  light." 

All  that  she  taught,  all  that  she  urged  upon 
others,  she  lived  in  her  own  life.  Precept  and 
example  went  hand  in  hand,  and  seeing  what 
high  purpose  had  wrought  in  her  made  more 
than  one  set  his  ideal  farther  above  him. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  a  word  about  the 
poems.  She  began  writing  verse  at  the  early 
age  of  fifteen,  and  was  chosen  Class  Poet  the 


8  INTRODUCTION 

year  of  her  graduation  from  the  Framingham 
Normal  School.  At  intervals  all  through  life 
she  wrote  occasionally,  publishing  many  articles, 
both  in  prose  and  verse,  in  various  papers  and 
magazines.  The  last  poem  in  the  collection  is 
the  last  she  wrote,  and  bears  the  date  of  1887. 

Her  early  friend  Mr.  Whittier  thought  that 
her  girlish  verses  showed  talent.  May  be  if 
life  had  fallen  in  easier  paths,  if  her  duty  and 
inclination  could  have  lain  closer  together,  even 
she,  with  all  her  modesty,  might  have  called  the 
result  something  besides  "  Rhymes."  But  early 
in  life  she  knew  that  she  must  join  the  ranks  of 
bread-winners,  both  for  herself  and  for  those 
who  were  dear  to  her,  and  choosing  the  profes 
sion  of  teaching,  she  prepared  for  it  with  the 
same  thoroughness  and  singleness  of  purpose  that 
marked  all  she  did.  She  accepted  her  chosen 
work  as  a  trust,  as  an  opportunity  for  good,  and 
she  brought  to  it  such  service  as  lifted  up  even 
that  high  calling. 

The  winters  were  spent  in  New  York;  the 
summers  in  Massachusetts  and  Maine,  and  some- 


INTRODUCTION  9 

times  with  a  party  of  especial  friends  at  a  Way 
side  Inn  among  the  New  Hampshire  hills.  Here 
for  several  summers,  in  the  beginning  of  her 
extreme  ill-health,  she  gained  enough  strength 
to  carry  her  safely  through  the  wearing  work 
of  the  winter.  "Ah,  those  beautiful  Ossipee 
days !  "  she  used  to  say  in  recalling  them.  And 
so  we  all  said  who  had  the  privilege  of  enjoying 
them.  Where  else  in  all  the  world  were  there 
such  sunsets  behind  the  mountains,  where  such 
green  stretches  of  meadow  land,  such  clear 
sands  in  the  river  bottoms,  and  such  sparkling 
waters  to  cover  them  !  Where  else  were  there 
such  warm  and  abiding  friendships  developed ! 
Many  a  song  since  given  to  the  world  was  sung 
there  for  the  first  time  in  the  glow  of  the  big 
backlog  in  the  old  "  west  parlor." 

Something  in  the  air  made  all  our  faults  seem 
small  and  our  virtues  large.  Could  it  have  been 
the  "  Summer  Chemistry "  of  which  William 
C.  Gannett  sings :  — 

"  What  does  it  take 
A  day  to  make,  — 
A  day  at  the  Bear  Camp  Ossipee  f 


10  INTRODUCTION 

White  clouds  a-sail  in  the  shining  blue, 

Dropping  a  shadow  to  dredge  the  lands  ; 

A  mountain-wind,  and  a  marching  storm, 

And  a  sound  in  the  trees  like  waves  on  sands  ; 

A  mist  to  soften  the  shaggy  side 

Of  the  great  green  hill  till  it  lies  as  dim 

As  the  hills  in  a  childhood  memory; 

The  crags  and  the  ledges  silver-chased, 

Where  yesterday's  rainy  runlets  raced  ; 

The  back  of  an  upland  pasture  steep, 

With  delicate  fern-beds  notching  wide 

The  dark  wood-line  where  the  birches  keep 

Candlemas  all  the  summer-tide  ; 

Brown-flashing  across  the  meadow  bright 

The  stream  that  gems  its  malachite  ; 

And,  watching  his  valley,  Chocorua  grim, 

And  a  golden  sunset  watching  him  ! 

Add  —  fifty  lives  of  young  and  old, 

Of  tired  and  sad,  of  strong  and  bold, 

And  every  heart  a  deeper  sea 

Than  its  own  owner  dreams  can  be  ; 

Add  eyes  whose  glances  have  the  law 

Of  coursing  planets  in  their  draw  ; 

Add  careless  hands  that  touch  and  part, 

And  hands  that  greet  with  a  heaven's  sense  ; 

Add  little  children  in  their  glee 

Uprunning  to  a  mother's  knee, 


INTRODUCTION  11 

Their  earliest  altar  ;  add  her  heart, 
Their  feeble,  brooding  Providence  :  — 

Add  this  to  that,  and  thou  shalt  see 

What  goes  to  summer  chemistry,  — 

What  the  God  takes 

Each  time  he  makes 

One  summer-day  at  Ossipee." 

Many  whose  hearts  and  hands  touched  ours 
there  already  know  the  mystery  of  the  Here 
after.  Those  of  us  who  are  left  draw  closer 
in  spirit  as  the  circle  narrows,  with  thankful 
hearts  that  we  were  counted  worthy  to  have 
such  friends  even  for  a  season. 

Miss  Powers  used  to  say  that  as  she  grew 
older  she  found  herself  with  more  faith  and 
fewer  beliefs.  Certainly,  as  the  years  went  by, 
her  faith  in  the  Fatherhood  of  God  and  the 
Brotherhood  of  Man  grew  stronger,  and  testing 
her  belief  by  her  life  one  came  to  feel  that  a 
faith  which  could  make  a  life  so  perfect  and 
beautiful  here  must  be  sufficient  for  the  Here 
after. 

"  She  to  many  among  us  gave 
A  reverence  for  the  true  and  pure, 


12  INTRODUCTION 

The  perfect  which  has  power  to  save 
And  make  the  doubting  sure." 

Hers  was  a  simple  life  grandly  lived.  The 
warp  and  woof  of  it  seemed  sometimes  to  be 
made  up  too  largely  of  the  hard  commonplaces 
of  life,  —  straitened  circumstances,  self-sacrifice, 
care,  and  ill-health ;  but  in  and  out  and  over  and 
under  were  woven  gentleness  and  grace,  purity 
and  tenderness,  charity,  patience,  and  high  re 
solve. 

Those  of  us  who  watched  it  closest  and  saw  it 
till  the  last  felt  that  it  was.  complete,  and  that 
the  King  would  not  reject  it. 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  the  door  closed 
between  us  when  she  went  on  to  join  "  the  silent 
ones."  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  anywhere  in 
the  world  there  is  a  white  stone  bearing  her 
dear  name  and  the  record  :  — 

BORN  IN  SANFORD,  MAINE,  FEBRUARY  lOra,  1833. 
DIED  IN  LAKEVILLE,  CONN.,  SEPTEMBER  BTH,  1890. 

We  could  not  bear  it  without  faith  in  the  glad 
reunion  of  the  life  to  come. 

"  Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  ! 


IN  TROD  UCTION  1 3 

Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 
The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 
And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  !  " 


CONTENTS 


ttm 

SUNSET 17 

A  SUMMER  HOME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 21 

THE  PRAIRIE-LAND 24 

To  THE  CRICKET 26 

To  THE  SPRING  BIRDS 28 

MY  NEIGHBOR 30 

Two  TIMES  SEVEN 31 

A  LESSON  FROM  LIFE 33 

No  TIME  FOR  ELATING 35 

LAMENT 37 

TIRED  OUT 40 

O  SOFTLY  FALLING  FLAKES  OF  SNOW 41 

DRIFTING 43 

DREAMLAND 45 

THANKSGIVING  HYMN 47 

SUPPLICATION 49 

AURORA  BOREALIS 51 

SUNSET  ON  BLUKHILL  BAY       52 


POEMS. 


SUNSET 

THE  autumn  wood,  the  sunset  sky, 
Such  gold  and  purple  blend, 

No  Indian  web  nor  Tyrian  dye 
Their  beauty  may  transcend. 

Along  the  narrow,  dusty  road 
The  matchless  glory  falls, 

Transforming  lowliest  abode 
To  gilded  palace  halls; 

And  myriad  insects,  far  and  near, 
Through  glowing  ether  flit, 

Each  one  a  living,  moving  sphere, 
By  level  sunbeams  lit. 


18  SUNSET 

The  curling  smoke-wreath  lifts  afar 
Its  gold  and  azure  pride ; 

The  rough-hewn  fences,  post  and  bar, 
Stand  strangely  glorified.  t 

A  graceful  child,  with  flowing  hair, 
Bounds  towards  the  sunset  gold, 

And  seems  an  angel  borne  in  air 
Or  saintling  aureoled. 

Now  the  great  blazing  sun  is  hung 
Amid  the  laced  tree-tops, 

Now  slides  their  leafy  depths  among, 
Now  deep  in  shadow  drops. 

But  sends  his  gleaming  arrows  back 
To  fringe  the  purple  mist 

That  hangs  above  his  shining  track, 
A  veil  of  amethyst. 

The  splendor  deepens,  changes,  flies  ; 

The  west  is  dim  and  gray ; 
Cold  on  young  Evening's  bosom  lies 

The  dying  Autumn  Day. 


SUNSET  19 

But  lovelier  days  will  come  and  go, 

And  brighter  suns  will  set; 
Old  Nature's  march  is  grand  and  slow, 

Her  triumph  speeds  not  yet. 

She  waits  to  greet  the  perfect  man, 

Clear-eyed  and  strong  of  soul, 
To  comprehend  her  wondrous  plan 

And  bravely  use  the  whole. 

With  senses  broad  awake  and  keen 

To  read  Truth's  countersign 
In  beauty  eyes  have  never  seen 

For  lack  of  vision  fine, 

She  waits,  but  soothes  th'  impatient  race 

With  gift  of  rarer  gems 
Than  ever  yet  found  honored  place 

In  kingly  diadems. 

The  darkness  deepens.     Solemn  night, 

Her  sable  veil  unfurled, 
Is  slowly  shrouding  from  our  sight 

A  restless,  weary  world. 


SUNSET 


0  autumn  wood !     O  sunset  sky ! 
Night  cannot  hide  your  charms ; 

1  lay  your  gold  and  purple  by 
In  memory's  shielding  arms. 


A  SUMMER  HOME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

TO  MBS  J.   J.    P. 

LET  others  throng  the  crowded  ways 
Where  fame  and  foolish  fashion  shine, 

But  let  these  quiet,  restful  days 

With  peaceful  Nature  still  be  mine. 

No  startling  raids  of  hurrying  steam 
Can  this  retired  domain  invade ; 

We  walk  where  glinting  sun  rays  beam 
Through  overarching  boughs  of  shade. 

In  solemn  grandeur  ranged  around, 
The  wooded  hills  like  watchmen  stand ; 

Bold  guardians  of  the  peace  profound, 
Which  rests  on  this  enchanted  land. 

The  fragrant  breath  of  clover  fields 
Is  wafted  on  the  evening  breeze ; 


22    A  SUMMJEK  HOME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  warm  south  wind  its  burden  yields, 
Of  healing  balm  from  od'rous  trees. 

We,  grateful,  breathe  the  perfumed  air, 
And  while  the  quickened  pulses  thrill 

With  hope  to  do  and  mind  to  dare, 
What  luxury  the  power  of  will ! 

No  midnight  mirth  despoils  the  day ; 

Our  curfew  is  the  whip-poor-will; 
While  myriad  songsters,  wildly  gay, 

The  early  morn  with  music  fill. 

Now  falls  the  soft,  caressing  rain, 

On  sun-browned  sod  and  drooping  flower, 

Till  all  the  landscape  smiles  again, 
Responsive  to  the  timely  shower. 

Along  yon  pasture,  forest-hemmed, 
The  patient  cattle  slowly  wind 

And  crop  the  verdure,  crystal  gemmed, 
Good  gift  of  Nature,  always  kind. 


A  SUMMER  HOME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  23 

Our  higher  needs  are  well  supplied; 

Our    hearts    that    love,    our   thoughts    that 

range, 
May  safely  rest,  or  wander  wide, 

Find  calm  repose  or  endless  change. 

Each  gleam  from  One  All-ruling  Mind 
We  catch  with  never-wearying  eyes, 

With  grateful  hearts  that  still  we  find 
All  beauty  brings  a  glad  surprise. 


THE  PRAIRIE-LAND 

THEY  said  the  prairie-land  was  fair, 
With  broad  expanse  of  waving  gold; 

That  rest  was  in  its  balmy  air, 
And  in  its  bracing  winter's  cold. 

They  said  its  glorious  morning  sun 

Shone  fervent  down  from  clearest  skies, 

But  backward  flung,  when  day  was  done, 
Cloud  curtains  vast  of  gorgeous  dyes. 

Its  lakes  and  softly  flowing  streams  — 
Spangles  and  threads  of  silver  light  — 

Were  woven  in  my  sweet  day-dreams 
And  sleeping  fancies  of  the  night. 

I  found  the  prairie-land  one  day, 
Too  late,  alas!  for  waving  gold; 

In  plenteous  sheaves  the  treasure  lay, 
And  yet  the  half  remained  untold. 


THE  PRAIRIE-LAND  25 

The  pure,  glad  winds  from  fields  new-mown 
Would  fan  my  cheek  with  soft  caress, — 

Ethereal  contact  all  their  own, 

Like  heartwarm,  human  tenderness. 

Each  dawn  became  a  glad  surprise, 

Each  day  a  revelation  new; 
The  marvel  of  the  sunset  skies 

An  ever-deepening  wonder  grew. 

But  when  the  crowning  beauty  came 
Of  richest  crimson,  brown,  and  gold, 

And  autumn's  rule  was  just  a  name 
'Twixt  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 

When,  soft  and  warm,  a  dreamy  haze 
Wrapped  bluff,  ravine,  and  low  hillside, 

We  said,  "  The  days  are  perfect  days ; " 
The  prairie-land  was  glorified. 


TO  THE  CRICKET 

LITTLE  cricket,  blithe  and  cheery, 
Harping  all  the  long  night  through, 

Are  ye  never  faint  and  weary? 
Comes  no  listlessness  to  you? 

Are  these  simple  chirpings  praises 

To  the  mighty  God  above? 
Songs  which  sinless  nature  raises, 

To  extol  His  gracious  love? 

Every  night  I  lie  and  listen 

While  your  cheerful  harpings  rise, 

And  the  stars  above  me  glisten 
Like  the  light  from  angel  eyes. 

Then  the  loves  and  hopes  and  dreamings 

Of  the  nights  of  long  ago 
Cheer  me  from  the  starry  gleamings, 

Soothe  me  from  the  song  below. 


TO  THE  CRICKET  27 

Listening  to  your  simple  numbers, 

I  forget  the  cares  of  now, 
And  the  old,  soft,  quiet  slumbers 

Best  again  on  eye  and  brow. 


TO  THE  SPRING  BIRDS 

SING  on,  merry  birds  of  spring, 
Life  has  no  dark  side  for  you, 

Friends  ye  love  are  always  friends, 
Friends  ye  trust  are  always  true. 

Sing  on,  merry  birds  of  spring, 
This  fair  world  is  all  ye  know, 

And  upon  its  trifling  things 
All  your  time  ye  may  bestow. 

But  it  scarce  becometh  me, 
Born  to  live  for  endless  years, 

On  life's  vanities  to  spend 
All  my  cares  or  all  my  tears. 

Life  to  me  means  something  more 
Than  to  live  from  day  to  day, 

'Tis  a  fierce  and  ardent  strife, 
Not  a  child's  unstudied  play. 


TO  THE  SPRING  BIRDS  29 

Yet  this  world  is  not  all  gloom ; 

Such  as  ye  its  gladness  bring, 
Cheering  sad  and  weary  hearts, 

By  the  blithesome  songs  ye  sing. 

Sing  on,  then,  ye  merry  ones, 
Let  your  sweet,  wild  music  come 

From  each  little  joyous  throat, 
In  your  new-chid  woodland  home. 


MY  NEIGHBOR 

MY  neighbor  Las  a  garden,  all  in  sight; 
Nasturtiums,  asters,  pinks,  and  dahlias  bright 
Smile  sweetly  in  the  sun's  caressing  light, 
Or  graceful  bow  beneath  the  autumn  rain. 
My  neighbor's  flowers,  every  one,  but  still, 
Mine  to  enjoy  and  dream  about  at  will; 
His  to  be  careful  for,  to  watch  and  till. 
Ah  me !  his  joy  is  mixed  with  toil  and  pain ! 
My  other  neighbor  owns  a  house  and  lands, 
Counts  up  his  daily  gains  with  jeweled  hands, 
Might  mark   the    fleeting   hours  with    golden 

sands; 

This  neighbor  passes  for  a  happy  man. 
Heaven  make  him  such ;   my  castle  towers  as 

high 

In  far-off  Spain,  beneath  a  kindly  sky, 
Where    safe  from  tax  or  mortgage  my  lands 

lie, — 
Tell  me  who  is  the  richer,  ye  who  can. 


TWO  TIMES   SEVEN 

Two  times  seven  —  ah,  blissful  age  ! 

Childhood's  sorrows  ended, 
Life  begins  a  happier  stage  — 

Child  and  woman  blended. 

Standing  on  the  sunny  slope, 
All  the  past  seems  brighter; 

Looking  up  and  on  with  hope, 
Youthful  steps  grow  lighter. 

Griefs  that  made  the  child-heart  sad 
Now  are  griefs  no  longer ; 

Well-done  work  shall  now  make  glad, 
Mind  and  will  grown  stronger. 

Wisdom  gained  in  earlier  days, 
Less  from  love  than  duty, 

Now  shall  strew  along  life's  ways 
Happiness  and  beauty. 


32  TWO  TIMES  SEVEN 

No  wise  prophet  lips  are  mine; 

This  no  revelation 
Caught  from  oracle  or  sign, 

All  is  love's  dictation. 

Eyes  that  watch  the  opening  rose 
Need  no  quickened  seeing, 

While  before  them  surely  grows 
Mystery  of  being. 

Then  should  words  become  a  prayer 
For  all  light  and  sweetness 

On  the  opening  life  so  fair, 
Verging  towards  completeness; 

For  a  glory  on  the  way 

To  the  "  three  times  seven  ; " 

Onward  thence  to  perfect  day, 
Blending  earth  with  heaven. 


A  LESSON   FROM   LIFE 

THE    birds    made    music    through    the    bright 
June  days, 

As  though  there  were  no  sorrow, 

Nor  fear  of  any  morrow, 
But  only  joy  and  love  and  praise. 

Their  glad  songs  fell  on  ears  attuned  to  hear 

The  sweetness  of  all  voices 

With  which  the  earth  rejoices, 
When  Death  seems  far  and  Heaven  near. 

The    brightness   left    the  day,  the    songs  were 

turned 

To  notes  of  woe  or  warning, 
For  Death  came  near  that  morning, 

Too  well  the  birds  and  listeners  learned. 


34  A  LESSON  FROM  LIFE 

The  singers  mourned,  perchance,  a  blithesome 

mate 

Or  too  adventurous  nestling, 
While  human  souls  were  wrestling 

With  grief  in  homes  made  desolate. 

The  summer  days  go  on  with  sun  and  shade  : 
Once  more  the  birds  are  singing, 
While  Time  sweet  balm  is  bringing 

To  soothe  the  wounds  by  Sorrow  made. 

So  ever  alternating  song  and  sadness  fill 

The  cycle  of  all  being. 

So  wills  the  Great  All-Seeing, 
And  so,  submissive,  let  us  will. 

What  kindly  thought  and  tender  hand  may  do 

To  soften  all  life's  grieving 

Is  well,  if,  calmly  leaving 
The  rest,  we  all  life's  work  pursue. 


NO  TIME  FOR  HATING 

BEGONE  with  feud !  away  with  strife, 

Our  human  hearts  unmating ! 
Let  us  be  friends  again  —  this  life 

Is  all  too  short  for  hating. 
So  dull  the  day,  so  dim  the  way, 

So  rough  the  road  we  're  faring, 
Far  better  weal  with  faithful  friend 

Than  stalk  alone  uncaring. 

The  barren  fig,  the  withered  vine, 

Are  types  of  selfish  living ; 
But  souls  that  give,  like  thine  and  mine, 

Renew  their  life  by  giving. 
While  cypress  waves  o'er  early  graves, 

On  all  the  way  we  're  going, 
Far  better  plant  where  seed  is  scant 

Than  tread  on  fruit  that 's  growing. 


36  NO  TIME  FOB  HATING 

Away  with  scorn!     Since  die  we  must, 

And  rest  in  Nature's  keeping, — 
There  are  no  rivals  in  the  dust, 

No  foes  where  all  lie  sleeping, — 
So  dry  the  bowers,  so  few  the  flowers, 

Our  earthly  way  discloses, 
Far  better  stoop  where  daisies  droop 

Than  tramp  o'er  broken  roses. 

Of  what  are  all  the  joys  we  hold 

Compared  to  joys  above  us  ? 
And  what  are  rank  and  power  and  gold 

Compared  to  hearts  that  love  us  ? 
So  fleet  our  years,  so  full  of  tears, 

So  closely  death  is  waiting ; 
God  gives  us  space  for  loving  grace, 

But  leaves  no  time  for  hating. 


LAMENT 

ONE  more  great,  loving  heart  forever  hushed, 

Two  hands  forever  still, 
Rest  for  another  spirit  worn  and  crushed, — 

O  God,  was  this  Thy  will? 

We     saw    him     here,  —  but    yesternight     it 

seems,  — 

He  smiled  upon  us  then  ; 
The  long  days  since  have  passed  like  time  in 

dreams, 
Shall  we  not  wake  again? 

Ay,  wake  to  hear  that  noble  heart  throb  on 

In  Christ-like  tenderness? 
To  see  those  eyes  beam  on  the  suffering  one, 

With  light  to  cheer  and  bless? 


38  LAMENT 

O  Father,  let  us  wake,  and  speak  one  word, 

Our  late  regret  to  prove 
To  him  who  too  much  of  our  censure  heard, 

Too  little  of  our  love. 

In    vain  our    pleading,  —  we    must    wake    to 
weep, 

But  not  to  work  for  him; 
O  pitying  God,  forgive  the  sinful  sleep 

With  which  our  eyes  were  dim! 

Forgive,  nor  let  the  wealth  of  sympathy 

That  comes  too  late  to  save 
Be  scattered  to  the  winds  so  wild  and  free, 

Nor  buried  in  his  grave. 

O  let  us  learn  from  him  and  our  regret, 

To  feel  another's  woe, 
And  chide  no  more  a  heart  with  grief  beset, 

Whose  wounds  we  may  not  know. 

He  rests  at  last,  beyond  all  pain  and  care, 
Beyond  temptation's  power; 


LAMENT  39 

No  blight  o'erspreads  the  home  that  holds  him 

there, 
No  clouds  above  him  lower. 

The     spring    will    wane,     the     summer    come 
apace, 

With  all  its  birds  and  flowers, 
To  sing  and  bloom  above  his  resting-place, 

Through  long,  bright,  dreamy  hours. 

But  fairer  seasons  cheer  the  spirit's  home, 
More  fragrant  showers  are  there, 

And  music,  such  as  thrills  no  earthly  dome, 
Fills  all  the  perfumed  air. 

So  let  him  rest,  and  when  we  vainly  long 

To  hear  his  well-known  voice, 
We  '11  catch  its  music  in  celestial  song, 

And  in  our  grief  rejoice. 


TIRED  OUT 

TIRED  out !     Ah !  yes,  dear  heart,  we  know, 
Too  well,  indeed,  we  understand 
The  weariness  that  creeps  so  sad  and  slow 
O'er  heart  and  brain  and  hand. 

It  comes  not  oftenest  to  those 
Who  proudly  walk  life's  public  ways; 
The  hardest  toiler  may  be  he  who  chose 
A  path  apart  from  [human]  praise. 

The  life  that  gives  itself  for  lives, 
Through  years  of  trial,  care,  and  pain, 
Knows  more  of  toil  than  his  who  only  strives 
For  glory  or  for  gain. 


0    SOFTLY  FALLING    FLAKES    OF    SNOW 

0  SOFTLY  falling  flakes  of  snow, 
What  silent  tales  ye  tell ! 

Ye  bring  the  days  of  long  ago 
Around  me  like  a  spell. 

1  stand  among  the  breezy  hills, 
A  dreaming  child  again ; 

The  mystery  of  living  thrills 
My  busy,  childish  brain. 

I  look  along  the  coming  years 
With  mingled  hope  and  dread;  — 

Will  flowers  of  joy  or  rain  of  tears 
Bestrew  the  path  I  tread? 

Will  those  who  love  and  guard  me  still 

Be  always  at  my  side, 
Or  must  some  stern,  resistless  will 

Our  pleasant  ways  divide? 


42    O  SOFTLY  FALLING  FLAKES  OF  SNOW 

O  silent  snow  that  made  no  sign 
The  wond'ring  child  to  cheer, 

To-day  your  secret  all  is  mine, 
To-morrow  brings  no  fear. 

On  hallowed  graves  where  dear  ones  lie, 
White-winged  ye  gently  fall, 

But  love  and  memory  cannot  die, 
For  heaven  is  over  all. 

The  wintriest  day  in  all  the  past 

Had  more  of  good  than  ill, 
And  cold  misfortune's  chilling  blast 

IB  fraught  with  blessing  still. 

And  so  I  watch  your  silent  fall 

Divide  the  Sabbath  calm, 
Content  that  He  who  ruleth  all 

Can  will  His  own  no  harm. 


DRIFTING 

I  AM  drifting, —  not  on  the  broad  ocean, 
But  close  between  beautiful  shores, 

Borne  on  by  the  current's  soft  motion, 
With  hardly  a  dip  of  the  oars. 

I  am  drifting,  I  cannot  tell  whither, 
And  why  should  I  question  or  care? 

It  was  Infinite  Love  brought  me  hither, 
And  Infinite  Love  leads  me  —  where? 

Other  voyagers  are  floating  beside  me, 
Always  near  me  in  sunshine  and  storm ; 

Friendly  voices  now  cheer  and  now  chide  me, 
Friendly   hands    clasp    my    own,    kind   and 
warm. 

Some  rash  ones,  too  weary  with  drifting, 
Seized  the  oar  with  a  vigorous  hand, 


44  DRIFTING 

And  gayly  the  bright  water  lifting, 
Hurried  on  to  the  shadowy  land. 

I  meet  not  a  voyager  returning,  — 
Our  vessels  are  all  outward  bound ;  — 

Though  I  call  them  with  infinite  yearning, 
Vanished  friends  make  no  answering  sound  I 

Some  morning  I  too  shall  be  going 
Beyond  where  the  dark  shadows  fall ; 

Yet  I  calmly  drift  onward,  well  knowing 
My  Pilot  is  Ruler  of  all. 


DREAMLAND 

ABE  my  dreams  but  fancy's 

Wild  and  shadowy  train 
In  fantastic  glances 

Gliding  through  the  brain  ? 
Yet  they  charm  and  hold  me 

With  their  magic  spell; 
Books  nor  tongues  have  told  me 

All  they  seem  to  tell. 

Hints  of  bloom  and  beauty 

In  a  realm  so  near, 
Where  Love  walks  with  Duty, 

Both  apart  from  Fear; 
Where  Truth  rules  serenely 

With  unveiled  face, 
Walking  calm  and  queenly 

In  the  highest  place. 


46  DREAMLAND 

Where  brave  Friendship  chooses 

For  all  time  his  friend; 
Where  Hope  never  loses 

Heart  until  the  end; 
Where  Life  —  one  long  blessing  - 

Meets,  at  set  of  sun, 
Death,  with  arms  caressing, 

And  the  twain  are  one. 


THANKSGIVING  HYMN 

FOR  love  that  crowns  the  fruitful  year, 

O  Holy  One!  we  raise, 
While  gathered  in  Thy  presence  here, 

Our  songs  of  grateful  praise. 
We  thank  Thee  for  Thy  bounteous  thought, 

The  fruit  of  tree  and  vine, 
For  skillful  work  our  hands  have  wrought,  — 

They  all,  O  God,  are  Thine. 

No  foreign  foes  our  coast  alarm, 

No  civil  feuds  are  ours; 
Our  soldiers  sleep  secure  from  harm, 

We  deck  their  graves  with  flowers. 
We  hear,  across  the  surging  main, 

The  voice  of  fatal  strife: 
We  see  where  on  the  battle-plain 

Goes  out  a  nation's  life. 


48  THANKSGIVING  HYMN 

Thy  hand  is  here,  Thy  hand  is  there; 

The  fairest  autumn  flower 
And  noblest  fruit  that  ages  bear 

Proclaim  alike  Thy  power. 
We  shout  our  "  Harvest  Home "  to-day 

With  glad,  uplifted  voice, — 
The  harvest  of  the  nations  may 

Soon  make  a  world  rejoice. 

So,  then,  in  calm  and  holy  trust, 

O  Father,  we  would  rest: 
We  know  Thy  will  and  purpose  must 

Be  evermore  the  best. 
For  sun  or  storm,  for  joy  or  woe, 

Oh,  let  us  ever  praise, 
Till  bliss  which  only  angels  know 

Shall  crown  our  ripened  days. 


SUPPLICATION 

PRESS  tenderly,  O  winter  snow, 
The  grave  of  him  we  love  so  well ; 

On  that  dear  head  now  lying  low 
The  snows  of  age  too  rudely  fell. 

O  winter  wind,  so  wild  and  strong, 
Blow  softly  o'er  his  place  of  rest; 

The  blasts  of  poverty  and  wrong 
Too  long  his  tender  heart  distressed. 

O  winter  sun,  shine  brightly  down 
Where  our  beloved  calmly  lies; 

Nor  Sorrow's  cloud,  nor  Fortune's  frown 
Shall  longer  vex  his  weary  eyes. 

Ah !  weary  eyes  that  looked  too  far 
Beneath  the  seeming  good  of  things, 

So  missed  Hope's  cheerful  guiding  star, 
Nor  caught  the  gleam  of  angel  wings. 


50  SUPPLICATION 

Ah!  weary  eyes  whose  smiles  were  few 
Whose  lids  were  often  wet  with  tears. 

They  look  on  joys  forever  new, 

They  weep  no  more  through  endless  years. 

O  blest  assurance,  doubly  blest 

To  us  whose  hearts  with  sorrow  swell, 

That  such  a  soul  finds  such  a  rest, 
That  heaven  is  gained,  and  all  is  well. 


AURORA  BOREALIS 

MYSTEBIOUS  invader  of  the  night, 
In  silence  leading  forth  your  ghostly  band 
From  out  some  unknown  realm  of  sea  or  land, 
We  ask,  while  lost  in  marvel  and  delight, 
The  priceless  boon  of  deeper,  keener  sight 
To  look  beyond,  or  strong  hand  to  upraise 
The  veil   that   hides    your    sources   from   our 

gaze. 

As  soon  will  finite  mortals  understand 
Whence    come    the    mighty    hosts    of    human 

thought, 
In   what  fierce  forge    the  chains  of  love   are 

wrought, 
How   passion's   deadly  glare   can   scathe    and 

blind. 

Thus  questioning,  the  Infinite  is  sought ;  — 
We  yet  will  ask,  for  none  but  seekers  find. 


SUNSET  ON  BLUEHILL  BAT 

WE  sit  beneath  the  softly  whisp'ring  pines 
Whose  fragrance  mingles  with  the  soft  breeze 

sweet ; 

The  squirrel  gambols  fearless  at  our  feet ; 
Gulls,  snow-white,  clothe  the  rocks,  as  day  de 
clines  ; 
From   gold    and   crimson    skies    the    low    sun 

shines ; 
The    cold    sea    blushes,   by    such   warm    rays 

kissed ; 

The  granite  mountains  change  to  amethyst, 
Till    earth    and    heaven    in   calm    communion 

meet. 

We  cannot  know  what  bliss  or   rapture  waits, 
To  longing  souls  incarnate  still  denied, 
But  if  there  lies  beyond  the  western  gates, 
Or  where  the  eastern  hills  stand  glorified, 
The  topmost  plane  of  all  celestial  states, 
Would  we  pass  on,  or  choose  the  hither  side? 


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